We'll Burn It Like Candles on a Christmas Tree
by erdbeerpfannkuchen
Summary: Tom wasn't the only Branson in the IRA. He stays back from Scotland for a reason. He has plans. Oneshot. Please review!


They had left three hours ago.

The house, the mansion, the ornate prison, was quiet. The servants had gone to bed, save for Tom. Of course, he wasn't really a servant anymore. He was working for the Crawley's again. It was mortifying. Worth it, he supposed, to have his daughter raised in a place that was safe, where food would always be on the table, where she would never be left alone. She was beginning to grow hair, small, light red locks, like his own. On her monthly check up, Dr. Clarkson had told him it would likely grow darker as the years went on. Based on Sybil's baby pictures Cora had lovingly gushed over with him in the initial days after her "death," Sybil was going to look a lot like her mother.

Robert had invited him to Scotland with the rest of the family, a courteous but hesitant gesture, but Tom had declined. He was unwilling to take Sybil on such a long journey, and between himself and the baby and the wet nurse, they would just be a burden. Besides, he had plans. Big plans.

He had told them that he and Sybil were going to spend Christmas with his wife, her mother. They all nodded quietly, Cora tearing up, Robert shaking his head, Matthew squeezing his shoulder like his brother might had he not returned to Liverpool, Edith staring out the window on the dreary afternoon, Mary setting her lips in a fine line, biting back emotion as she always did.

They didn't know. For now, that was the plan. It was painful enough to see her convulsions, but he thought of how hard it must be for the rest of them.

They thought she was dead.

It was four o'clock when he awoke on Christmas. Tom had ensured Sybil go to bed early the night before. The house was gayly decorated, gold filigree, sugar plums, tall pine trees hung with candles, tinsel, strung cranberries and ornaments of harps and angels. The family had just gotten a radio, and in the background, grainy tunes played. Sybil squirmed in his arms as he dressed her in thick clothes for the cold outside. She blubbered a bit, but he shushed her. Precious cargo tucked in his arms, he turned off the radio, and walked out into the gently falling snow, leaving the house in darkness and silence.

The walk to the grave was thankfully a short one. Sybil's nose was becoming red, though she seemed to enjoy the snow. She looked fascinated at the sudden change in scenery of the world around her. He smiled. His sweetheart. His darling.

Though the other family members tried their best to dissuade him, Tom wanted Sybil's grave at the base of the large oak that stood at the far edge of the graveyard.

His shoes crunched as brittle grass crushed underneath him. The snow had begun to pile a bit. A white Christmas. Charming.

She was waiting.

Sybil ran to him, and kissed him like they had been worlds apart.

It was appropriate. Everyone thought they had.

Her cold hands touched his cheeks. "Looking at your own gravestone is so eerie."

He laughed like he hadn't in months. The bundle in his arms smiled, and cuddled into him for warmth.

Sybil let her tears spill as she touched her daughter, pulling her away from her father and into her own arms. Tom leaned his head on hers, one hand around her waist, the other over hers, cradling their child. "She's gotten so big."

Tom kissed his wife's forehead. "You've missed a lot. We missed you."

"They don't suspect anything, do they?"

He shook his head. "Not a thing."

"It's an awful shame," Sybil whispered, brushing the cheeks of her daughter, "that we have to do it on Christmas."

"We know they'll be safe. That's what matters. The plan was to get rid of everything else in the house, anyway."

"What do you think they'll say?" Sybil could feel tears welling up. "They will hate us, so much. They'll think you're a horrible corrupting influence on me, that I'm some pawn of yours. They think that YOU would be the one to make me-" She glanced up at her husband, and down at her child. "-fake my death."

"Let them think it. I've had their hate once already." Tom sighed, looking out onto the white expanses of the fields around them. "Neither of us can turn back after this, you know."

Sybil nodded. "I know, Tom. I know."

His hand still on her hip, they started their journey back to the house. Sybil would gather a few pictures for old times' sake and maybe a few jewels to fund their journey back. Tom would light the fire in the topmost floor, giving him time to get the servants out before it collapsed. Downton would be burned.

"Do you think you'll be sorry about it? When it's over?" He asked, as they stood in the doorway he had dropped her off at those few years ago, letting her fly back into her golden cage. It would be the last time they would enter this cursed place. Sybil hiccupped in their arms. Her mother bounced her a bit, to get the burps out.

"No," Sybil uttered breathlessly, eying up the building that seemed to go on forever above their heads. "I don't think I will."

_Thanks for reading! Please review!  
_


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